To Chase a Shadow
by Keil
Summary: Aragorn finds himself in a place he did not expect, chasing away shadows. (slash)


**Author's Notes:**

Characters and the world of Arda copyright Tolkien and all that, no money being made, utmost respect for his works. 

Updates, cookies, alternate versions, other fandom related material can be seen on LJ (URL in profile) 

Feedback is always very much appreciated. :) Will try to contact anyone who wishes to be.

**Warnings: Very much an R rating. Slash. Angst.**

The original NC17 rated version can be read on LJ:   
Due to annoying text mangling, you'll have to reform this url in your browser (just take out all the spaces):  
www . livejournal . com / ~ strange_fate / 8574 . html 

To Chase a Shadow

The scent of sweat and earth hung shrouded in the air, clinging in swaths across landscapes of flesh bared to the dappling moonlight that speared them from above. Fingers and limbs entwined and unravelled; fingertips traced patterns in hollows of sinew and bone, charting and claiming all at once, all again. 

The origins of this passion fluttered briefly through Aragorn's mind as he raked his teeth across the nape of Boromir's neck, feeling the pale downy hair against his lips, the arc of the man's spine against his abdomen. A soft sound escaped him as he recalled the first kiss, violent beneath a pale Lothlórien tree that shone silver in the wash of the moon. It reminded him of Gondor, of the man before him. 

_As Captains so we are to each other,_ Aragorn had thought when he'd met those dark eyes, surprised to see the reverence in his own reflected, the distance and mistrust dissolved in this temporary sanctuary. _In so many strange ways... Where does it come from, this good I see in you?_

And he wondered, through the fissures of Boromir's fading resolve, that the man in front of him desired only a tool to save his people though he seemed to care not whether he might save himself. Aragorn, in one moment, saw a man who would allow himself to be destroyed if it would only spare the lives entrusted to his care. He remembered the taste of wine on Boromir's lips. 

Thrice had Boromir come to him before that kiss, in the first days they took their relief in Lórien. He would speak of Gondor, of his love for the White City. He shared tales of Faramir, from the antics of their youth through the accomplishments of the young Captain that went unhonoured by their father. Indeed, he spoke much of Faramir, with such reverence in his eyes Aragorn could nearly see it in his very flesh. And with a cold voice, he told of the failing rule of Denethor. 

Aragorn was witness to many a shadow in Boromir's eyes, but it was the Captain's doubt of his father that touched him most deeply. The uncertainty that Denethor any longer made choices that remained true and good to Gondor and its people weighed heavily on Boromir's mind. And within this the ranger saw his own misgivings, the constant doubt of his heritage, the tempered despair that one might become the very thing that lent itself to one's blood. So it was, on the fourth night, in an impetuous moment, Aragorn had grabbed a fistful of the other man's tunic, pushed him against a tree and crushed his lips against Boromir's. 

It was two moon rises before Aragorn again saw him; but Boromir did return. The night was chaotic with fumbling warrior fingers and discarded clothing, and eventually they sank to the earth and lay together beneath the same silver tree. And Boromir did not leave when it was over. 

Legolas knew. Aragorn remained unsurprised, the eyes and ears in these woods extended farther than he care to imagine. He was unsure of his expectations, but Legolas merely smiled enigmatically at him and placed a hand on his shoulder. "Some good may come of this," he said, with an inclination of his head, and then walked silently away. Aragorn recalled the soft golden hair of Boromir's chest beneath his fingertips. 

It had been little more than a month since that kiss. _And has it? Has good come from this?_

The soft light of Aragorn's swift reverie was snuffed by the movement beneath him, which pulled a muffled groan from his throat. He had to set his jaw. The ranger pushed himself up slightly, one palm tracing the taut lines and angles of Boromir's back, the percussion of his backbone, feeling the man beneath him strung tightly as a bowstring. His other hand slid around Boromir, fingertips slipping deftly over sweat soaked flesh. 

Boromir gasped. The ranger watched shining droplets slip down the soaked tresses of his hair to dissolve over Boromir's skin. He closed his eyes as Boromir let out a throaty growl. A whimper stumbled from Boromir's mouth, the man's head now hanging limply. He ground out a curse as he saw a light burst behind his closed lids, and it was all he could do to keep from throwing his head back and howling. Aragorn's chest fell to rest on his back; the ranger bit into his shoulder. The heat from their skin was like raging fire. Boromir opened his eyes wide as a breeze washed over them. 

For a moment, Boromir thought the wind had spoken his name; he dismissed it with no more than a short lived, wistful narrowing of his eyes. Nay, it was but the whispering of the leaves that had not yet fallen, drawn out in chorus by the wind and molded something new for each ear it might meet. 

Breath coming heavily, Boromir let his eyes slip closed once again. He felt lips against his neck and shivered as Aragorn withdrew from him, the ranger falling heavily onto his side close by. Aragorn put one arm behind his head and shifted onto his back, and Boromir rolled onto one hip to face the other man, one knee brushing against Aragorn's leg. Stormy eyes flicked between the canopy above them and the darker eyes next to him, all the while reflecting the passing of pale cloud and star above, and Boromir watched the silent portrait of the heavens in Aragorn's eyes. 

As the wind began to fail, Boromir reached out with one hand, fingers aiming to trace the rises of the ranger's lips. His brow was furrowed, concentrated. A hand closed strongly around his wrist, and Boromir lifted his gaze to meet Aragorn's, the grey shields of the other man's eyes boring intently into him from over his outstretched hand. Their glance held, and Boromir was ready to pull back his hand. 

Aragorn tilted his head forward and brought Boromir's fingertips to his lips. The silent touch felt like lightning, in all its gentleness. Something flickered in the ranger's gaze; perhaps it was the shifting clouds above that released the moon. The fingers around Boromir's wrist loosened and fell away. Boromir let his hand trail down to Aragorn's chest. The ranger closed his eyes. 

Little more than a month, and the question remained. 

Fingers trailed from the centre of his chest down the side of his rib cage, gently plying the flesh as Aragorn pushed himself up from the ground. The ranger stood, and Boromir's hand fell to rest in front of his own stomach. Boromir watched Aragorn stand without tilting his eyes upward, his head propped up on a fist. When Boromir smiled, looking at Aragorn's legs, the ranger saw it reached his eyes. Such a simple thing, as he had not see since before their attempt to traverse the Pass of Caradhras, and in it he saw a facet of the answer. 

The river rushed softly by them as Aragorn gathered his clothes to him and began to dress. Boromir watched the slivers of rolling light dancing over Aragorn's skin. It was time to return to the others. 

Legolas kept watch somewhere in the shadows of the trees, but the others should long be asleep. As Aragorn closed the last of his fastenings, he heard Boromir step up behind him. The ranger turned and dropped his hands to his sides. Boromir released the ties of his own shirt, the fabric falling open over his chest, and pulled Aragorn close. Warm breath caressed lips for a short eternity before Boromir pressed his gently against Aragorn's in a kiss, almost chaste: something he'd never done. Aragorn's eyes slipped closed, and when they opened, Boromir was walking back toward camp. 

They followed the river for a short distance, the sounds of Gimli's soft snores soon reaching their ears. Around a rocky outcropping, the silhouettes of their friends came into view. All rested on their bedrolls, save for two small figures that remained upright, seated in discussion. Frodo could not sleep, and Sam would not take rest without him. Aragorn caught the hitch in Boromir's step, saw the man's shoulders straighten, awkward. His brow creased. 

A sound from the river caught Boromir's attention, and he glanced out to the water from behind the shadow of a boulder. Aragorn stepped to his side. 

"Gollum," said Aragorn softly, one shoulder brushing against Boromir. His eyes traced the angle of the man's unshaven jawline. "He has tracked us since Moria." A decaying log floated along the surface and became caught up in some rocks on the other river bank before it kept moving. Aragorn stepped away. "I had hoped we would lose him on the river, but he is too clever a waterman." 

Boromir did not turn. "And if he alerts the enemy to our whereabouts, it will make the crossing even more dangerous." His voice was taut, mimicking the tightening of his fingers into a fist as he watched the creature in the water. 

The voices of the hobbits drifted to them. Sam was trying to convince Frodo to rest, and it seemed at length he was able to get the ring bearer to lie down. Boromir finally turned away from the river. 

"Minas Tirith is a safer road. You know that." Boromir stepped toward Aragorn, his back bent. "From there we can regroup, strike out from Mordor from a place of strength." Boromir's eyes were dark. For a moment, the ranger could not see even the water's light reflected upon them. 

"There is no strength in Gondor that can avail us." Aragorn's features twisted before this subtle change in the other man, but he stood his ground. He thought of the smile that had so recently graced Boromir's face. 

"You were quick enough to trust the elves." Eyes round with more than mere incomprehension, Boromir pinned the ranger beneath his gaze. "Have you so little faith in our people? Yes there is weakness, there is frailty, but there is courage also, and honour to be found in men. But you will not see that." A hand lashed out and took hold of Aragorn's tunic, with a different ferocity than the desperate fingers that had earlier sought its removal. "You are afraid! All your life you have hidden in the shadows, scared of who you are, of what you are!" 

Aragorn reclaimed his tunic with a violent wrench of his shoulder, reseating the cloth with a tired hand. He began to step away, but turned back, closing the distance between them until he could feel Boromir's breath again. He remembered the whisperings of it on the back of his neck. There was a needle of truth in Boromir's words, but it was not his own failings brought into light which he now scrutinised. "I will not lead the ring within a hundred leagues of your city." He thanked the Valar his voice had not broken. A moment more passed while Aragorn held Boromir's eyes, then he turned and stepped to another ridge of jutting stone. 

He did not trust himself to turn completely round. Looking back over his shoulder, Aragorn wrapped his fingers around the hilt of his sword. His eyes drove through Boromir, who made to step forward with an outstretched arm before he saw the ranger's hand on his weapon. Aragorn's stomach spasmed as he watched Boromir's features visibly shatter. _I would kill you, if it came to it. You know this..._ His eyes remained distant. It was understood. Boromir let his arm fall limply by his side, and turned back to the water. 

As Aragorn pulled out his pipe, the sound of retreating footsteps rustled behind him. He closed his eyes, slouching against the stone and packing the pipe weed slowly into the hollow wooden bowl. His thumb remained over the brittle leaves; he made no move to light them. _What have we let this become, Boromir?_

The distant sound of a fluting melody wafted on the river's breeze. _Whence do these things come that I find I feel for you?_ There were enough answers waiting, beneath warm fingers and in the depths of sharp eyes. And, indeed, places elsewhere, but none gave him any solace. Aragorn put his pipe away, unsmoked. He could rest. Boromir would not return until it was time to depart, of this at least, he was almost certain. He dismissed an uncomfortable tightness in his chest as he lowered himself to a thin blanket a short distance away from the group. The sleep he hoped for did not come. Nor did Boromir. 

Few words were spoken in the morning before they took to the boats once again, and none were passed between the two men. Less, even, was said while they were on the water. Aragorn rowed briskly down the Anduin. In front of him, Sam held onto the sides of the boat unsteadily. Frodo remained oblivious to the journey. Gimli, lost in reverie of Galadriel, shared a boat with Legolas. To the rear, Merry and Pippin accompanied Boromir. Aragorn felt his eyes burning into him. 

By the time they rowed ashore, Aragorn's heart was beating a path out of his chest. He watched Boromir as the man stayed behind in his boat, just long enough to shake something from his shoulders, his concentrated effort showing plainly in the hushed features of his face. Aragorn's heart thrummed harder. 

As the rest of the Fellowship gathered on shore, Aragorn turned away, his brow straight, though his eyes creased faintly at the corners. He let a hand fall absently against his abdomen, a futile gesture meant to quell the disquiet building within. He argued their path with Gimli, then walked over to Legolas. His throat constricted as the elf scanned the folds of the trees, saying a shadow moved somewhere on the western shore. 

And then, Frodo was gone, and all that remained nearby of Boromir was his shield. Aragorn stared at the round cut of leather, the sharp shine of the metal beneath the sun. No words came. The party dispersed into the wood in search of the ring bearer, and Aragorn was left to the ghost of a scent of sweat and earth, a trick of the wind that seemed to lay his flesh open. The sound of his own frantic footfalls assaulted his ears. The pounding in his chest deafened him. 

Frodo nearly fled when Aragorn stumbled upon him by the site of some old ruins. And then those words, forcing the breath from him. _It has taken Boromir._ Anger flashed in his breast, and he stepped too quickly toward the hobbit. "Where is the ring?" he ground out through nearly bared teeth, from a throat tight with disbelief. Boromir could not have been taken, never taken. Boromir did not belong to the Ring. A wave of guilt rode the crest of his rib cage. So Aragorn knelt, and let Frodo go. 

There was no time to think, no time to sate the ache in his chest before he was assailed. Part of him flooded with gratitude for the easy release of battle, for something to which he might set his mind so completely he might ignore the shortness of breath he had begun to suffer. Legolas and Gimli came to his aid, and they slaughtered a swath of Uruk-hai on the hills. They kept coming in waves that threatened to drown. What part of Aragorn that had gone to Boromir was reawakened in the moment the Horn of Gondor trumpeted over the hills. They hesitated not a moment before racing toward the sound: the plea for help. 

The Uruks poured in from all sides, screaming foully, but Aragorn was blind to all else. He slaughtered each one as it came, with no thought to his motions save that they carried him forward, faster, farther, toward the Captain of Gondor. The land was black with the half-breed Orcs, streams of the vile creatures all flowing toward the horn's call. 

He crested a rise of earth, and his eyes were filled with the site of Boromir. Aragorn's legs nearly failed him. Boromir was on his knees before an Uruk, his chin forward on his chest, from which stood three black arrows. The grey fletched shafts rose and fell with each valiantly won breath. Aragorn howled. 

Rage threw his body at the Uruk-hai, who stood prepared to deliver the last shot. Aragorn took hit after hit and rose after each. He cared not even as he was pinned to a tree by the Uruk's shield. The ranger struggled free and launched another attack, at last able to engage in a violent swordplay that overpowered the dark creature. His sword cut the air with apparent reckless abandon, disguising a fury of perfectly executed assaults. With a few swift motions, Aragorn took off the beast's sword arm, sunk his sword deep into its belly, and finally severed the creature's head. He watched the Uruk fall to the ground. 

"No..." he panted, paying no heed to the hillside of corpses as he raced to Boromir's side. He tried to pull the arrows from Boromir's chest, but the man stopped him. Merry and Pippin had been taken. Aragorn told him of Frodo's departure. His Captain uttered shuddering words of his despair, his loss of hope, and Aragorn felt himself torn open. _No, Boromir._ His tongue felt heavy in his mouth, as he spoke of his blood, of whatever strength he might find; it was all he could do to promise Boromir he would not let the White City fall, nor their people fail. 

Boromir's eyes lit up, fuelling a futile hope that dimmed quickly in Aragorn as the man reached blindly for his sword. The ranger placed the hilt in his open hand, and Boromir lifted it to his chest. Aragorn's breath came in uneven, quiet gasps, and he waged a war to keep it within his control. He could smell the sweetness of Boromir's skin. 

"I would have followed you my brother." Boromir's face paled, but his eyes grew sharp. "My Captain. My King." His last breath was almost silent, and Boromir's eyes dulled, losing focus to some unseen place in the sky above. Aragorn blinked back the sting of his eyes, the bite of the words that gnashed and clawed at the back of his throat to remain, now, forever caged. 

Aragorn touched his fingers to his brow, and took Boromir's head in his hands. He lowered his lips to his Captain's forehead. The skin was still warm beneath his lips. It threatened to wring a sob from his breast, but he remained still until he spoke softly. _My Captain._ "Be at peace, son of Gondor." 

The arrival of the elf and dwarf had not escaped his attention, but he could not stop the tear that escaped as he stood over Boromir. "They will look for his coming from the White Tower. But he will not return." _Save within me..._

Boromir's body was arranged in one of the elven boats, his sword in hand and his shattered horn at his side. They sent him in silence toward the Falls of Rauros. Sam and Frodo disappeared into the wood along the eastern shore, and Legolas prepared another boat, but Aragorn's gaze remained fixed upon the ever diminishing figure headed toward the mist of the falls. As it disappeared over the edge, the ranger pulled closed the buckle of Boromir's gauntlet on his own arm. 

Frodo's fate was now his own; the Fellowship had been broken. Aragorn stared one more long moment at the falls. _Nothing can be the same, Boromir._ His eyes darkened, but he forced his thoughts to the two young hobbits in the hands of the Uruk. _But we can remain within this truth._ He gathered his friends close; they would go on. 

"Some good has come from this," Legolas said as they became deft shadows in the forest. "It was the only way." Aragorn's grey eyes met the indigo of the elf's. He dipped his head, and they ran on. 

_You did not depart beneath the Shadow, Boromir. I would that you could have seen the Light under which you left. This good I see in you..._ He felt the brush of Boromir's fingertips across his lips. 


End file.
